I haven’t written any new entries lately because I have been working hard to change my situation. I didn’t realize that it’s been 18 days since my last blog, so I will give an update to the people who’ve been following my adventure. I would like to start by thanking all of the readers who have provided their kind words and feedback to this blog. You may not believe it but those words of encouragement, as well as sharing your own stories, have given me a spiritual lift. I have felt very alone since this whole thing began, and it’s nice to know that other people can relate to my thinking process. Several of you have donated actual money, which has allowed me to eat healthy food instead of Cup ‘O Noodles, and sleep in a warm bed instead of a freezing-cold back seat. I thank you all from the bottom of my tired heart, and I appreciate EVERY penny. Thank you thank you thank you.

GETTING UN-STUCK:

While 99% of the feedback I get from readers (I post this blog a lot of other places, BTW) is supportive and encouraging, I do get some mean ones. The ones that say “throw all homeless people into the sea” and shit like that, I just delete. But sometimes I get pretty judgmental ones too, that go into more detail about the standard perception about how “we all create our own destines,” etc., to which I agree (mostly). I believe this because I overcame poverty and abuse as a child, as well as a long drug-addiction (18 years clean, TYVM), and many many other factors that could’ve easily made me a casualty long ago, but I digress. The quickest way I can explain this “mystery” to those folks, without outlining my entire fucking history, is this: I see myself as a reasonably intelligent horse who has won many races, and lost many races. I just happened to have stepped into a large pit of quicksand, probably while gloating over the last race I won, and found that I could not get out. My argument is that even the smartest horse can fall into a trap from which he (or she) cannot escape without the aide of someone else, because he has worn himself out by struggling in panic. It’s a nice metaphor, but it raises the question: if you saw your friend or child (or a stranger) sinking in a pit of quicksand, seconds away from going under and drowning, would you stand just out of reach and wave a scolding finger and deliver a lecture about being dumb enough to fall into the quicksand? Or would you offer your hand and lecture him later? You’d save them, of course. You’d have to be a monster not to. Just remember: a drowning horse doesn’t need a lecture. He needs a fucking ROPE. Help, not shame.

OUT OF THE CAR AND INTO A BED:

There is one person who I really want to talk about today, and his name is Chicago Bob. He read my blog on Reddit of all places, because someone reposted one of my entries in a Sub-Reddit called “Today I Learned.” He happened across my blog about “Car-Dweller Culture” and quickly responded with a similar story about when he too lived in a car, and how he dug his way out of that proverbial hole. He sent a cash donation to my Paypal account, which I used immediately for a motel room and a roasted chicken & veggies, haha! HEAVEN!! When I reached out to thank him, we exchanged info and had a lovely conversation on the phone.

When my two nights of motel-bliss came to an end, he sent a bigger donation and I paid for three more nights in the same room. Those three nights allowed me the luxury of getting some meaningful rest; physically and mentally. We had more conversations, and struck up an actual friendship. He has donated money several times now, and even bought me a new laptop. He was the first person who has taken real strides to help me, a total stranger, to dig my way out of this horrific situation. He’s teaching me how to write corporate resumes so I can earn a living anywhere. His support and friendship has given me the desperately-needed encouragement to take some forward steps out of the rabbit-hole. It’s a small gesture to him, but a massive gesture to me.

BABY STEPS:

Because of Bob’s encouragement and help, I have come out of the darkness enough to make some actual progress, and I am working tirelessly (on my new computer) to get my business back and become a productive human again. Although I am still homeless, I am privileged enough to be able to stay in motels more often than the car; catch a breath and think logically, clean myself up, and get more bookings as a makeup artist and photographer. I can use the income from one photo shoot to pay for four nights in a room, and for me that is a very big deal. Bob’s donations are buying me a place to do makeup clients, which in turn pays for more nights in the room, and so on. I spend most of my time looking for a live-in job, and I couldn’t do that very productively before (you can’t show up to a job interview looking like you live in a car). Having a roof over my head has also given me new energy to consider legitimate ways to help other homeless people, and boy have I come up with a doozy! I cannot WAIT to start that process!

PASADENA OR BUST!

I got a room in Pasadena the other day because it was near a makeup client that booked me. I was shocked to find such a cheap room (the cheapest yet!) in a good neighborhood. When I saw the price I assumed it would be another ghetto, because that’s just the formula. But it’s a great neighborhood, and I had something of an awakening when I arrived. Pasadena has a long strip of cheap motels along Colorado Blvd., and it makes sense that they’re so cheap. The competition of a hundred other motels drives their prices down, even though they are pretty decent quality. I sure wish I would’ve known about this motel goldmine many months ago when I first started my journey. I would probably not be homeless now had I known about it. I wish I could find a cheap warehouse and reopen my business here. Any sympathetic property owners out there?

TO LONG BEACH OR NOT TO LONG BEACH?

I’ve been offered a cheap warehouse in a bad area of Long Beach for $1,500 a month. The owner doesn’t care about my bad credit, or the fact that I will be photographing transgender people on the property. However, I am unsure if my clients would be willing or able to make that drive (or if there will be clients already in the area) to support the business. It’s VERY risky and I do NOT want to live in Long Beach, but beggars can’t be choosers (literally, haha!). I hope and pray that something else comes along before I am forced to commit to a place that I know would hurt my business. Although it might be irrelevant anyway, because I don’t have the money for the place, so I have started a crowd-funding campaign that could make that possible (I’ve provided a link below, in case you’re feeling charitable today)

WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE A PART OF A REAL “RAGS-TO-RICHES” STORY?

I’ve never revealed my identity in any of my blogs, because I thought it would come back to haunt me someday. Or worse, it would somehow damage my business when and if I ever managed to get it back. But now that I have officially launched a crowd-funding campaign, it’s gonna be pretty damn tough to hide. Someday when I am being interviewed in some magazine or on some TV show (we all have fantasies, right?), I will be open about my experiences with being homeless, and my clients and fans will cheer me on as I accept my “Worst Year Ever” award.

THERE ARE FOUR WAYS TO HELP ME RIGHT NOW: JUST PICK ONE!

Donate to my fundraiser: this will allow me to rent a small warehouse to reopen my business, of which I still have anxious clients just waiting for my return: https://igg.me/at/cXbEIwNoB9o/x/15916674IF YOU CAN’T DONATE, THEN PLEASE SHARE THE LINK. Please please please with sugar on top

Media Attention/Press Coverage: Do you know a journalist or editor who is interested in human interest stories? “Transgender Advocate Survives Homelessness and Emerges to Help the Homeless.” It’ll make a great story and catch the attention of someone who could help.

I need a building, any kind of building: Do you know someone who owns a warehouse that would overlook bad credit? Do you know someone who owns an apartment complex or office complex that would overlook bad credit? If it’s big enough for a small photo-studio set-up and a sleeping bag, I’ll take it.

Benefactor/Angel/General Helper-Bee: Do you know someone who enjoys helping deserving people rebuild their lives? Someone who would serve as a mentor or guide for a business venture? I’ve been researching organizations for women in business, entrepreneurs, etc., but haven’t had the means or time to really pursue it. Yet. In the meantime, I dream of that smiling angel that floats down to pull me from the quicksand with that proverbial rope. It’s a nice little dream.

IN CONCLUSION:

I will continue this blog as I progress from “homeless” to “back-in-business,” and I hope you’ll continue to comment and share your stories. I do enjoy reading your stories, and I apologize for not returning every message. It’s something I plan on doing when I can finally exhale and begin rebuilding my life. I appreciate very much all of you who have donated. You have no idea how much it helps me, and my gratitude is immeasurable.

A VERY SPECIAL HEART-FELT THANK YOU TO CHICAGO BOB, WHO HAS HELPED ME MORE THAN HE COULD POSSIBLY KNOW. I’m proud to call you a friend.

If you haven’t had the opportunity or inclination to read any of my other many blogs about being homeless, I will give you a quick briefing: I’m a 49 year-old white female, college-educated former business owner and artist. I became homeless a year ago, and my blog chronicles the adventure from the beginning up until now (I’m still homeless). I didn’t become homeless as a result of mental illness, drug-addiction, alcoholism, or domestic violence. I became homeless as a result of a declining economy, just like millions of other American small-business owners. You’d be shocked to find out how fast your life can and will unravel after only two months of little-to-no income. If it could happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

I’m writing this installment in response to the many many letters I get from readers. I don’t have a lot of followers here on WordPress yet, so most of the mail I get is from outside sources like Craig’s List (I post in Rants ‘n Raves frequently). While most of the feedback I receive is positive and supportive, some of it is very angry. I often receive hateful and angry letters from other homeless people who feel that I am not “homeless enough” to speak for them. Of course I understand their point of view, and I have never once claimed to be worse off than any of the people who are sleeping on the streets. I have always been very upfront about that fact that I am “privileged” enough to live and sleep in a car, and I’m also blessed to live in Los Angeles where the temperatures never fall below 40 or 50 degrees (and yes we DO have winter here!). I suppose I am viewed by them as a “pampered hobo,” whatever the hell that means. An outcast is an outcast, as far as I’m concerned.

First and foremost, and I cannot stress this enough, this blog was never intended to be a vehicle in which to garner sympathy. Not. At. All. Instead, I intended it as a means to shine light on the homeless epidemic from a human point of view, in hopes to influence my readers (who are not homeless) to see the homeless in a compassionate way. My initial intentions were to show the world that homeless people are just like them, and what better way to do that than speak with an educated and rational voice? While I am painfully aware that I am not the “norm” in that many homeless people are indeed mentally ill, addicted, or disabled, I do speak for a very large and growing population of displaced and newly homeless people who are simply victims of a crashing economy, and are otherwise “normal” and mentally and physically competent enough to manage their lives if only given a chance.

While I have tried to explain it many times, I will say it again: sometimes the planets and stars have to align just perfectly in order to become homeless, such as the case with my life, and they certainly aligned with laser-precision to get me out of my home and my life and put my butt onto the street. Some of those combined factors (planets and stars) include not having a family to help in times of crisis, not having enough surviving friends left to help in said time of crisis (most of my “real” friends are no longer living), and not having a high enough credit rating to get a loan and/or to rent an apartment. I did not lose my home and business as a result of my bad choices or bad habits. I lost everything as a result of simply not being able to pay my rent for two months in a row. I lost everything by landing on the wrong Monopoly property, and when I couldn’t pay the price, I was wiped out and exiled from the game. As one of my oh-so sympathetic friends so aptly pointed out, it was just “my turn.”

So while I struggle and fight daily to regain my standing in society, and to continue to work enough to scrape and save money for a place to live, I occupy my otherwise burdened and terrified mind by writing a blog. I do it because I want other people to know what it’s really like to lose everything you knew and loved, and trade those things in for loneliness and starvation, sadness and regret, a burning desire for another chance, and live like you are on a camping trip you can never go home from. Of course I know I’m not going to change the way the world sees the homeless, but can’t I at least try? Can I not try to change the way even one person sees the homeless?

All noble intention aside, I do indeed have other motives. I want someone to HELP, Goddammit! Not just me, but everyone who is homeless. There is absolutely no excuse for millions of capable adults and helpless children to go without a home in a country with so many wealthy (and greedy) individuals and corporations. There is no excuse for so many to be homeless in a country that allows huge corporations and churches to get away with not paying taxes that would provide shelter for everyone within a few short years of taxation. No fucking excuse other than despicable Government greed. The homeless epidemic will not be solved by the Government, but it could be solved by generous individuals and businesses, and the first step in that process is to remove the stigma and shame, and shine a light on it. I have ideas how to do that, but I need to remedy my own situation first.

So yes, I have ulterior motives for writing this blog. I want just one of my readers to pass my blog to someone who can help. That someone will hopefully be an editor or publisher of a large platform, such as HuffPo or Buzzfeed, so that this blog (and others like it) can go viral and catch the attention of folks who could actually do something about it, even on a small scale. Wouldn’t it be nice if it was the topic of a well-known talk show? (Ellen, Dr. Phil, Oprah Special) Or a documentary that hasn’t already been done to death? Many people have produced great documentaries about the homeless, but how many of those have shown homelessness from the perspective of the “normal” person and not those who are “beyond help?” Everyone with eyeballs has seen those tear-jerking TV commercials about rescuing shelter animals, but why are there no TV commercials for homeless women and their babies? Don’t get me wrong, I am a HUGE animal advocate. But why can’t we establish programs through which people can sponsor homeless families? Who knows what can come out of writing a blog like this, and I sure as hell am gonna try. Because it’s not about getting pity. It’s about teaching people how to have compassion for those who are really struggling to survive in one of the richest countries in the world, because their country won’t do a thing to help. Hell, if nothing else, maybe someone who sees it will give me a writing gig. Whatever the outcome, it’s always worth the effort.

Wanna know how you can help? SHARE THIS BLOG! And donate to homeless charities

If you haven’t had the opportunity or inclination to read any of my other many blogs about being homeless, I will give you a quick briefing: I’m a 49 year-old white female, college -educated former business owner and artist. I became homeless a year ago, and my blog chronicles the adventure from the beginning up until now (I’m still homeless). I didn’t become homeless as a result of mental illness, drug-addiction, alcoholism, or domestic violence. I became homeless as a result of a declining economy, just like millions of other American small-business owners. You’d be shocked to find out how fast your life can and will unravel after only two months of little-to-no income. If it could happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

In my previous blogs, I have many times referred to the homeless as “us” or “we.” In this installment, I must emphasize the singular and point out that I am speaking strictly to my own self when I use the term “social pariah.” I can only speak for my own experience and what happened to me personally. I’ve also got to be careful not to allow my bitterness to come through, because it’s a touchy emotion to control under these circumstances. I would challenge anyone to not be a little resentful while trying to understand their friends’ lack of support.

For me, it was a genuine head-scratcher until recently. This whole year of trying to figure out why nobody seemed to care; why nobody would help, even in the smallest way, was a real mystery. After all, I had spent my entire life helping everyone else. In fact, being helpful and supportive to my friends was so innate that I couldn’t even imagine any other way of being. I think helping other people was a natural instinct that came as a result of growing up without family nurturing myself. Even as a small child, I wanted to take care of everybody else. It started relatively early with neighborhood animals, and then it turned to friends at school who were bullied. I always sided with the underdogs, and defended them with fierce passion because I was tough and fearless. When I was about 13, I talked my mother into taking in my best friend who was being abused at home, and I did everything for her until she betrayed me. Little did I know that a lifelong pattern was being established, and that I would spend the next 30 years repeating the same mistakes over and over again.

Over the years and decades I took in strays; animals, friends, boyfriends and acquaintances. I offered my home, meals, money, rides, free photos, and endless other favors. It was never rooted in some kind of desire to “people-please” or to buy anyone’s affection, and it was never done out of pity. It was always about knowing what it was like to “go without” and what it was like to need. I quite enjoyed the feeling of satisfaction that came from making someone happy. However, that was never a factor in my work. I did photography because that’s what I loved and was good at, and over time it was I who was grateful for the opportunity to photograph someone in exchange for payment. I always felt so lucky that someone actually wanted to pay me to take their picture.

When cancer showed up, and I was truly frightened for the first time in my life, I knew I was gonna have to cash in all those karma cookies. Although I was never a religious person, I still found myself bargaining with the Universe to give me another shot. I promised to be of even more help to others, and so I dedicated all of my time to being of service. I volunteered on the horse ranch for sick and disabled kids, and I did everything possible to “get out of myself” by focusing on others. I took in friends that needed a place to stay, and I moved mountains to help them with whatever they needed at the time. It worked, and I made it through cancer. I went full-on with my business and never looked back.

As I developed my business and became popular in the community, I discovered that I was having a profound effect on my clients, and it became very addicting. I was working with cross-dressers and transgender women, and they all seemed so grateful for my acceptance of them that I knew I was doing the right thing. I truly felt that I was on the right path in life, because of the enormous satisfaction I got from being appreciated. It felt like I was doing something important with my skills, and after every single photo shoot I felt as though I had proudly earned another gold star. All my acceptance and endless pep-talks seemed to be coming back to me tenfold, because I was lucky enough to make an honest living as a photographer in Los Angeles among zillions of others who struggled to get work. I was blessed and I knew it.

I had always gone way out of my way for my clients and friends, but I was smart enough to recognize when my kindness was interfering in my own life, and that I wasn’t looking out for myself as much as I should. So I closed down the favor-factory and focused on just the basic services and my own well-being. And strangely, that’s when the people around me started to get snippy towards me. I was no longer their shoulder to cry on, or the chump-friend they could place endless demands upon. When the tables turned and I needed help, people were really bothered by it. What I didn’t expect was how difficult it would be to ask for/take help from someone else. The very few that I did reach out to seemed offended and annoyed that I would dare even ask.

Over the last few years, I had one friend who has always helped me. Whenever I wanted beer, there he was with a six-pack. When I ran out of brush-cleaner, there he was with a huge bottle of it. If my car broke down, or got a flat tire, he showed up to help. It was fine, I told myself, because everyone needs to have at least one person who is there for us when we need them. It still made me feel like a loser, and it made me feel like a failure every time he did anything to help me. It really bothered me, and I did everything I could to not ask for help from anyone else. This friend is the same friend I’ve spoken about in other blogs; he’s the one who lets me park in his driveway and lets me use his electricity for my laptop. He takes me out to eat, loans me cash, and many other things that really help. I owe him a lot.

When I went homeless, I tried not to tell anybody because I fucking hate to be pitied. I told my trusty side-kick, because I couldn’t avoid it. I tried to keep it a secret, but quickly found out that I would parish in that stupid truck if I didn’t reach out to someone. In the beginning, I was very careful about who I told, because I was carrying a massive ball of pride and I couldn’t stand that feeling of shame and failure. It was embarrassing, Goddammit! But after a while, if you get hungry enough, or cold enough, or scared enough, that ball of pride gets smaller and smaller with each night you sleep in a car. After enough of those nights you’ll say “fuck THIS,” and you’ll hesitantly tell someone that you trust and hope they will help.

But to my amazement, each time I told someone I was homeless…they disappeared. I was expecting (and dreading) pity, but instead I got judgement. All I had to do was mention the “H-word,” and they were gone. Sure, they’ll politely get through the conversation, be it a phone call, a text, an email. They’ll express their sorrow for your situation, but they will cut off contact. Once they know you are homeless, they will never take your calls again, even if all you want to talk about is the latest episode of your mutually favorite TV show. They’re too afraid you’re going to ask them for something. I tried to convince myself that somehow it was my fault. I wasn’t a good enough friend, I was bad about returning calls. I was sure that had to be it. Although that’s not an excuse I would use, I am aware that it is a convenient excuse for others. After all, I cannot apply my own reasoning to someone else. Just because someone is really busy and struggling for their own survival to the point of having to sacrifice phone time with their friends, I would not hold that against them if they lost everything they loved and became homeless. But that’s just me, because nobody deserves that kind of catastrophe, even if they are a flaky friend. If any of my friends ever became homeless, I would find a way to help them. Even if it was something small. Because when you are homeless, there is no such thing as “small.”

After a while, telling people I was homeless became kind of like a game. I would actually measure how long it would take them to get squirmy and suddenly need to get off the phone. I actually measured the speed in which they would blow me off. The one thing I couldn’t find any amusement in were the ones who promised help and then blew me off. To me that unexpected factor put a damper on the game in a big way, because that teeters on despicable cruelty, and I never counted on any of my friends being capable of that. It has happened more times than I want to count, and it continues to happen to this day. I’ve even began (for fun) collecting texts and emails that plainly state that they will help, right before they vanish. So the anger I feel does not come from the fact that they won’t help me, and it’s not always because they claim that they will and then they don’t.

The anger comes from the painful realization that I cannot hold my “friends” to the same standard of decency that I practice myself in daily life. If you promise to help a friend who is really down because nobody else will help them, and then you disappear, then you are a fucking scumbag. And you can quote me on that.

The very fact that it never even occurs to them to send their homeless friend $20, or that their friend is in terrible pain but a simple gesture of goodwill is out of the question for them. THAT, my friends, is why I am so fucking angry. Well, now I know why some homeless people are so pissed off. If asking for help only leads you to disappointment, embarrassment and shame, then you simply stop asking. The embarrassment doesn’t stop, the shame doesn’t stop, the pain and anger don’t stop, and the pride takes a beating. In fact those things get worse over time because you know your list is shrinking and true desperation sets in, and hope fades away. You simply stop asking.

I had a long conversation with one of my readers the other night about this very subject. This is someone who donated cash to my Paypal account, and I reached out to him to thank him. He offered me a job of sorts, writing corporate resumes from “home” (which I am absolutely thrilled about doing) and I used his donated funds for a few nights in a motel so I could catch a breath, take a shower, and get some much-needed rest. We spoke on the phone for hours, talking about the homeless experience. He pointed out a strange phenomenon; that total strangers are more likely to help us than our closest friends. I told him that I thought it was because I had proven to be a “bad friend” because I was slow to respond to the needs of my friends. Or maybe it was because my friends were so used to seeing me being strong, that they couldn’t handle seeing me in a weakened state (like when I had cancer). He disagreed by saying it was because they were afraid it was “contagious.” I had to think about that idea for a while, but the more I thought about it, the more plausible it became. To some people becoming homeless is much like dying, in that it’s the (second) worst thing that can happen to someone. So horrible, in fact, that they don’t even want to look at it. I react that way whenever I see an animal in the road; it’s just too horrible to register, and I will go to great lengths to avoid seeing it. Hmmmmm…..can that be the reason that my “friends” won’t talk to me now? Because I represent something so terrible that they can’t stop to take a look? Because they know they’ll feel guilty for not helping? It reminds me of a meme I saw on Facebook that read “I Don’t Want to Help, But I Don’t Want to Feel Bad for Not Helping.” Bingo.

I know one thing for certain now; and that’s the ugly fact that if you ever become homeless, your friends will either a) judge/blame/shame you for it, or b) be angry at you for letting it happen. What they will not do is swoop in and save you. I never expected anyone to ride in on a white horse and rent me an apartment, give me a job, or a loan me a wad of cash. The kinds of things I did hope for are simple gestures like helping me find a business partner to re-open my business. Or help me find a live-in situation (like an apartment manager job), or call that friend that they know that has a warehouse that isn’t being used. Or that friend of theirs that needs a house-sitter for a couple weeks. Even something super-easy like passing my blog along to that editor-friend they know. Those are the kinds of things that would help me, but they do require a little footwork from someone, or maybe even a few phone calls, and God knows we can’t have that. Some of us homeless people are not so far gone that a loan would not save our lives. Literally. Most “normal” people don’t even realize that a lot of us are homeless because we can’t raise a just couple of thousand dollars. It’s impossible to get and keep a job without a place to live, but we can’t get a place to live without working. It’s a Catch-22 that is easily solved by a small loan from a trusting friend.

So if someone you know ever becomes homeless, whether it be due to “no fault of their own” or even if they’re a flaky friend that “deserves it,” just think of Dan Aykroyd’s character in “Trading Places.” Think of how you would feel if everyone you knew suddenly turned their backs on you in your hour (or in my case, year) of need. Those things do come back to haunt us in life, and how you treat people when they are down is an absolute guarantee of how they will treat you when and if something equally horrible happens to you. To me it’s the same concept as wishing you were nicer to that person that just committed suicide; if only you had answered the phone when they called you for help. You can never take that back, and you will regret it for the rest of your life.

UPDATE: Immediately after this writing I was offered a warehouse in Long Beach for $1500/mo. I’m scrambling to raise the funds by offering discounted photo shoots to my past clients. I would gratefully accept donations via Paypal on the bottom of the main page. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

]]>https://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/2017/01/16/the-homeless-chronicles-pt-14-becoming-a-social-pariah/feed/0warriorsandghostsuntitledThe Homeless Chronicles Pt. 12: There Are Many Ways to Help the Homelesshttps://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/2017/01/10/the-homeless-chronicles-pt-12-there-are-many-ways-to-help-the-homeless/
https://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/2017/01/10/the-homeless-chronicles-pt-12-there-are-many-ways-to-help-the-homeless/#respondWed, 11 Jan 2017 04:35:37 +0000http://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/?p=1068Read More]]>

If you haven’t had the opportunity or inclination to read any of my other many blogs about being homeless, I will give you a quick briefing: I’m a 49 year-old white female, college -educated former business owner and artist. I became homeless a year ago, and my blog chronicles the adventure from the beginning up until now (I’m still homeless). I didn’t become homeless as a result of mental illness, drug-addiction, alcoholism, or domestic violence. I became homeless as a result of a declining economy, just like millions of other American small-business owners. You’d be shocked to find out how fast your life can and will unravel after only two months of little-to-no income. If it could happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

If you’re the type of person who genuinely cares about humanity, and is able to see the massive and quickly growing gap between the middle and upper classes of America, you might have a desire to help those who have fallen through the cracks. Anyone with eyes can see homeless people just about everywhere now, and the only difference between the wealthy neighborhoods and the poor neighborhoods is the number of homeless people that line the streets.

According to the the numbers reported by the article above, there are roughly 48,000 homeless people in Los Angeles County on a given night. I’m sure that report is very conservative, because it probably doesn’t take into account how many don’t apply for services or aid. Those people fly under the radar, and I know there are many more than anyone has been able to count. All those facts aside, the truth is still staggering to me. With that “small” number of homeless in a city that boasts a population of well over 18 million people, how then is it possible for 50,000 of them to be homeless? 50,000 is less that one-third of one percent, so how can it be that 18 million people cannot help 50,000 people?

My answer is simple: a lot of those people either can’t be helped, or they don’t want to be helped. I’m not even going to try to venture a guess as to how many of those people are “too far gone” in mental illness or addiction to be helped. I know the number is very high. So then, let’s just venture a very generous guess that half of those people are willing and able to be helped. Let’s assume that 25,000 people are perfectly capable of managing their lives again if given an opportunity. Those people fall into the category of job loss, trauma, abandonment, no family, escape from abuse, or simply having too poor of credit to rent an apartment. If 18 million people can’t manage to provide assistance to 25,000 people, then it can only mean that they either don’t want to, or they cannot help. If I were to break it down into my own little microcosm, and take into consideration how many friends I have, versus how many have helped me and how many have not, I would probably come up with roughly the same percentage as the larger model. If I have even a combined five hundred “friends,” acquaintances, clients, and Facebook buddies, and only three or four have actually helped me over my year of being homeless, I’d say that’s pretty damned sad.

Whatever the oversimplified case may be, facts are still facts. By and large, people just don’t help each other as much as they should. Sure, I know lots and lots of people give generously to homeless shelters, and bless them. Those shelters are very expensive to run, and most of them house only one or two hundred at a time. There are only a handful of shelters in Los Angeles, because they are all underfunded and they close down all the time. The Government can’t do much to help because every time they’ve tried to write homeless initiatives, the public bitches and cries so much that they can’t address the crisis with tax dollars. What else are they supposed to do? Who’s gonna pay for it? The public? The same public that votes down every homeless shelter construction project? The same public that calls the cops whenever they see a homeless person digging around their trash can in the alley? Yea, I don’t think those folks are gonna vote for a new homeless tax initiative.

So in consideration of all the factors above, how do I think this crisis could be addressed? I have a few ideas, but nothing I could mention here. But I do like the idea of somehow making it “cool and trendy” to help the homeless. Suppose, just for shits ‘n giggles, that one out of every, say…twenty people made a commitment to help one homeless person. How would that look on paper? Maybe they would take a trip down to one of the shelters and select someone who was “worthy” of help. That person would have to be of reasonable intelligence, be substance-free, and demonstrate an ability to be self-sufficient when given an opportunity. That person might then help the homeless person get a job, raise funds through their own community to pay for motel vouchers until the person got a paycheck, and help them get re-established into society. I know it’s a long shot, and totally unrealistic, but it’s worth thinking about.

Most likely the people who read my blog are in no way interested in investing that kind of time and effort into saving the life of a stranger, so I will provide a short list of a few easy things that could be done for a homeless person. But first, some assessments must be made: what kind of homeless person are they? Let’s say this person is of reasonable intelligence and able-bodied enough to be employed, and all they need is a place to live. Do they live on the street, or do they live in a car? My advice to anyone who is passionate about taking action for this growing epidemic is this: educate yourself. Most homeless people have experienced loss and pain on a scale that you probably can’t imagine. Not only have they lost everything and everyone that they loved, they have also become a social pariah. They are in pain, so treat them with compassion.

The level of help and involvement you are willing to put in is obviously up to you, of course, but it is also up to them. If you feel comfortable enough to sit down with someone who is homeless, then listen to their story. Find out what they actually need. It might not be what you expect. Of course every homeless person wants a home, but that doesn’t mean you have to rent them an apartment. It could be something as simple as needing a bus or plane ticket to live with a friend or relative. Maybe you know someone who needs a live-in caregiver/handyman/driver. Maybe you know someone who has an apartment building that could use a manager or maintenance man. Do you have a guesthouse that someone could stay in while they did some work around the property? Sometimes homeless people wish they just had a place to take a shower and wash their clothes once a week. Sometimes the only thing stopping them from getting a job is not having a couple of clean outfits, or a valid ID and address to put on the application. You could rent them a P.O. box, you could take them to get their new driver’s license. If they’re a car-dweller like me, you could let them park in your driveway one night a week so they can use the electricity to watch movies on their laptop. Do they have a dog? Take the dog to the vet for a checkup. Do they need to have their teeth cleaned? Take them to a low-cost dentist. You can take them to get some new shoes and a few pairs of new socks, take them to get a nice haircut. Buy them a nice warm coat and gloves. Ask some of your neighbors if they need work around their yard. How about buying them a $30 smart phone from Walmart with a pre-paid card that you could reload once a month? Another great idea is a gift card from a grocery store, so they can get any kind of food they want, hot or cold! Even something small and “safe” like a care-package with soap, toothpaste, baby-wipes, and socks would be appreciated. Instead of recycling all those plastic bottles and aluminum cans, why not save them up and give them to the homeless guy that you see by your place of employment? Why not organize a fundraiser once or twice a year at your job, and give the proceeds to a shelter nearby?

All of the things I mentioned above are clearly going to be based on your ability to assess this person’s trustworthiness. You’ll know right away if they are, just as you know right away if any stranger, homeless or not, is “safe.” Trust your instincts. More often than not, they will be so grateful that anyone is willing to help them, that they will not want to mess that up. If you talk to the people who run these shelters, they’ll be able to tell you right away who is a candidate for help, and who is not. The best way to meet homeless people in a safe and “guided” environment is to go and volunteer at a soup kitchen for a day. Just look around and you’ll be able to tell the difference between the ones that are mentally ill and the ones that are easy to talk to. If you’re a woman, then go volunteer at the Downtown Women’s Center. Volunteering on a regular basis will give you a much clearer picture of who is deserving and receptive of real help down the line.

So if you’re the kind of person who sends a $20 bill to the local shelter every Christmas, then bless you. But you just paid for a couple of #10 cans of corn that will be gone in one meal at a shelter. That’s great, but wouldn’t it be more gratifying to pick one homeless person and help them in a big way, like helping them find a job or a place to live?

If you haven’t had the opportunity or inclination to read any of my other many blogs about being homeless, I will give you a quick briefing: I’m a 49 year-old white female, college -educated former business owner and artist. I became homeless a year ago, and my blog chronicles the adventure from the beginning up until now (I’m still homeless). I didn’t become homeless as a result of mental illness, drug-addiction, alcoholism, or domestic violence. I became homeless as a result of a declining economy, just like millions of other American small-business owners. You’d be shocked to find out how fast your life can and will unravel after only two months of little-to-no income. If it could happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

I must make it very clear that this chapter of my blog on homelessness is not intended to attack the wealthy. In fact, it’s intended to do the opposite. I hope to use my tiny voice to enlighten people of means with a different perspective about the subject. Wealth in and of itself covers a very broad spectrum. It can mean an individual, a family, or a corporation. It can include people who’ve inherited their wealth, it can include someone who fought and scratched for every cent as he or she ascended the ladder. It can include celebrities, athletes, corporate raiders, tech-whizzes, rock stars, oil barons, or any type of successful entrepreneur. My point is that, in my opinion, the “method” by which someone has acquired their wealth will not be a factor in determining how and why they will (or will not) share their wealth.

We cannot and should not assume that if someone who has earned their wealth honestly and with hard work will be less generous, any more than we could assume that a person who acquired their wealth easily, or by inheritance, will be more generous. It doesn’t work that way. I think it’s based on their personality and how much pleasure they derive from helping others. Philanthropists are born from all walks of life, just as the greedy are. Greedy people do not need to be rich, just as philanthropists do not need to be rich. However, those stereotypes exist for a reason, and that it seems to be the case most of the time.

Either way, regardless of how someone acquired their wealth, their personality will determine how and why they will or will not share that wealth. You might also be thinking that the amount of wealth will determine their willingness to help other people with it, but I don’t agree. First of all, the very term “wealth” is relative to the person making that assessment. Second, even people of “minimal” wealth can still be generous because they just give on a smaller scale. Hell, even poor people can be generous with their tipping at a diner, or they can give a few coins to the guy who panhandles outside their supermarket. Generosity is not limited to the wealthy any more than frugality is limited to the poor.

You might be wondering how this homeless (therefore, clearly poor) person has the gall to be writing about the generous or stingy inclinations of the wealthy. My answer is simple: just because I am poor right now doesn’t mean that I’ve never known wealthy people. In fact, I have been friends with a few wealthy people over the course of my life, and I was able to not only “observe them up close,” but to actually talk to them about it. What I learned about wealthy people during those friendships is this: most wealthy people do not appear wealthy, in that they don’t walk around dripping with diamonds. They do not advertise their wealth; in fact, they hide it. The second thing I learned about wealthy people is this: they absolutely give to charity. They donate bits here and there to a wide range of charities, and some of them donate quite large amounts to causes that are dear to them personally.

The third (and possibly most important) thing I learned about the wealthy is this: they know full-well that when they donate $1,000 to a particular cause, whether it be to the Children’s Hospital at Christmas, or cancer research at tax-time, they know that they will never see a direct result from that donation. They donate because it makes them feel good to give, not because they think they will actually cure cancer with that $1,000. They know that $1,000 is not going to save the life of a specific child who will then leap into their arms and thank them with tears streaming down their little face.

So why then, do they do it? Because they can, and because it feels good. Why then, do some of them refuse? I think it’s probably not out of greed or being a miser, but rather they have donated many times before and have not seen any benefit from it. Maybe some of them have helped so many people before, and have been burned. Maybe they are sick to death of giving, giving, and giving more and having everyone around them take and take. In the case of my friend, his three adult kids were constantly nagging at him for money. “Dad, I wrecked the Benz again!” or “Dad, I need a house closer to school.” In fact, their greed with his money got so out of hand that he had to “put his foot down” after he paid for his son’s wedding at the Ritz Carlton in Laguna Beach, and plane tickets for dozens of the bride’s family members and friends, many of whom weren’t even very close. So in my friend’s case, he was so tired and beaten down by his entitled kids, that he grew cynical. I know one thing for sure, and that is if he were alive today, I would not be homeless.

What my friend liked about me was that I never once asked him for money. I was in college and struggling, but I had several jobs and I did all kinds of other things to make money. I made and sold T-shirts on eBay, I bought and sold old textbooks, and I did makeup on cross-dressers to survive while pulling down 18-20 units per semester. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer two weeks before transferring to UCLA, he bought me a car. The car I had been driving for years was old and beat up, and would break down on me regularly. The driver door was dented and didn’t open, so I had to climb over the passenger seat to exit the car. After it broke down on me on the way to an important doctor appointment, he insisted on buying me a used Mustang. Of course I accepted it, because I needed to get to that hospital every single day, and it was really far away from my apartment. It was the first time in my life anyone ever bought me an expensive gift, and the first time anyone had ever done anything “grand” for me. I was shocked and grateful, and I had no idea how to accept a gift like that gracefully. He liked the fact that I was truly grateful, because other people in his life expected things like that and were not at all grateful.

My point is that wealthy people like to help those who are truly deserving of their help. They like to help those who help themselves, but they also like to help the vulnerable; such as children, victims of abuse, or the chronically ill. It’s because those people are in need due to no fault of their own, so obviously someone who has a gambling debt is less likely to get help from a generous benefactor. In my case, my friend knew that I was a very hard worker and I had to deal with cancer on my own. He was happy to buy me a car, but his kids were very angry with him about it. That goes to show the difference between someone who is generous to someone who is deserving, versus those who get angry that their father helped someone other than them.

When I talk about my wealthy friend, I speak from the perspective of a poor person. A really wealthy person would not consider my friend wealthy, but instead he would probably be labeled “affluent.” He was in real estate, owned several very nice homes and loads of commercial properties. But he was by no means Jay Z, or of that ilk. He wasn’t ultra-rich by any stretch of the imagination, just my imagination. As a person who was raised in poverty, my ideas about the rich came from watching television. Nowadays, that information is readily available to anyone with a access to a computer, and it’s not hard to observe the impulsive spending habits of the celebrity nouveau riche. As continually proven by the Kardashians, wealth does not necessarily create class or generosity. In fact, they demonstrate what a lot of wealthy people would call a flagrant and vulgar display of wealth, which makes them appear trashy. Imagine having billions, and still be largely regarded as trashy by your wealthy counterparts!

Whether we are wealthy or poor, we (Americans) all have something in common; and that is we all have access to the same television shows and the same social media. Poor people can see shows like “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills,” “Keeping Up With the Kardashians,” “Rich Kids of Beverly Hills,” and the like, and develop a genuine sense of failure and lack of self-worth. Rich people can watch those same shows, and react in a competitive way, such as irresponsible spending in order to feel and appear “equal.” I can’t speak for anyone else when I say that if I had access to that kind of wealth, you can bet your Clive Christian-soaked ass that I wouldn’t waste it on a Hermes Birkin bag. If I had $30,000 to throw away on a fucking purse, I’d pay a family’s rent for a year instead. Whenever I see these shows about characters who spend tens of thousands of dollars on trips to Dubai, where all they do is bicker with each other, it makes my stomach turn. Or they spend even more than that on a birthday party for a four year old. If I had $60,000 to throw away on a five-hour event for a child, I would pay the rent for SIX families for a year!

I don’t pretend to understand the “pressure” that these filthy-rich and spoiled women feel to keep up with (and out-do) one another, but to my simple mind, it is the same class-battle we all experienced in grade school. There was always one girl who was richer than everyone else, and every other girl in the class felt like shit unless her daddy would buy her the same ugly shoes as the rich girl. Within the first few weeks of the school year, the class would be divided into clusters of those who could afford the expensive/ugly shoes, and the ones that couldn’t. So the eight or nine girls who had the “right” shoes all hung out together, and the ones who were poor (who wore Levi’s and Converse, if we were lucky) all hung out together. There was the rich group and the poor group, and we hated each other. Doesn’t seem like much has changed, does it? Social stratification starts in grade school, and it never goes away. But what the blind parents and teachers don’t seem to notice is that the poor kids are always the ones who are more likely to get into alcohol and drugs. Gee, I wonder why that is? Could it be because we are told that we are less than our wealthier peers? Could it be because we feel, and are often told, that we are not as good as the other kids? Could it be the daily…hell, hourly reminders that we will never have what they have? What I constantly notice when I watch these rich-housewife shows, is that none of them have any poor friends. Of course they don’t. Poor girls weren’t good enough for them in grade school, and they are not good enough for them now. And they perpetuate the cycle by training their young daughters to be the exact same way.

So forgive me if I don’t feel sorry for poor, poor Camille Grammer after her “horrific” divorce (which left her a millionaire-ess), as she piddles about in her enormous Malibu mansion. I can’t imagine her pain. Adrienne Maloof could pull one painting off the wall of her palace and feed ten hungry families for a year with the money. If I sound bitter, it’s not because I am jealous. I’m bitter because people like her and her friends could help so many deserving people with their wealth, but their need to live in such extravagance and waste supersedes any sense of duty or morality. I know, I know. It’s their money to do with what they want. I get that. But nobody needs that much money, and it angers me that they don’t feel the need to help others less fortunate than themselves. With the money she spends on one car, I could start a business that would support me for the rest of my life.

Although I am aware that these people do regularly donate to charity, I would like to see them go a little beyond the anonymous donating to a faceless cause. By the time those funds pay the marketing costs, their staff, and all the other “expenses” that are incurred along the way, probably less than ten percent actually goes into the hands of the needy for which it is intended. What I would rather see is them picking out one or two capable and deserving people from a homeless shelter, and helping them in a profound way. Get them a place to live, help them with getting gainful employment or an education. Do something that directly helps a family in need, and not just by having your accountant cut a check at tax-time to some charity whose director is filtering the funds into their personal account.

If I could convince the wealthy that not all homeless people are filthy drunks that deserve what they got, I would die happy. If I could teach all wealthy people to treat the homeless with kindness and compassion, I would. If I could help them understand that the homeless are just human beings who deserve to be looked in the eye and not discarded like trash, I would try. I also understand that unfortunately not all homeless people can be helped. Some of them truly are beyond help, or have families that have tried a million times to help them. Some are perfectly content to be homeless, and some are not even aware that they are. Some got there through no fault of their own, and some are so ill that they couldn’t live like normal if they tried. No matter what you think someone did to “deserve” being homeless, everybody deserves a second chance in life. So why can’t it be you that gives it to them? Get out there and help a real person who would thrive with your help! Go save a life!

]]>https://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/2017/01/09/the-homeless-chronicles-pt-11-the-wealthy-and-the-homeless/feed/0warriorsandghostsla-fi-hotprop-neoclassical-beverly-hills-20150721The Homeless Chronicles Pt. 10: Licensing Your Business While Homelesshttps://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/2017/01/08/the-homeless-chronicles-pt-9-licensing-your-business-while-homeless/
https://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/2017/01/08/the-homeless-chronicles-pt-9-licensing-your-business-while-homeless/#commentsMon, 09 Jan 2017 02:10:19 +0000http://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/?p=575Read More]]>If you haven’t had the opportunity or inclination to read any of my other many blogs about being homeless, I will give you a quick briefing: I’m a 49 year-old white female, college -educated former business owner and artist. I became homeless a year ago, and my blog chronicles the adventure from the beginning up until now (I’m still homeless). I didn’t become homeless as a result of mental illness, drug-addiction, alcoholism, or domestic violence. I became homeless as a result of a declining economy, just like millions of other American small-business owners. You’d be shocked to find out how fast your life can and will unravel after only two months of little-to-no income. If it could happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

I’m sure your laughing hysterically over this title. I laughed while typing it, and I’ve laughed while trying to live it. Sometimes. So, you ask, how does one go about trying to franchise a business while sleeping in the backseat of a $600 Craigslist Shitwagon? Exactly how does one conduct any kind of business when one is homeless? Easy! You waste every single second of your insomnia-cursed, semi-waking life (or lack thereof), chasing after scumbags who promise you the world. I will write a quick summary of all the crazy characters I have met over the course of the last eighteen months while trying to expand my business. But before I do that, I think it would be helpful if I gave a little background about the “how and why” of such a challenging decision.

When I first started my small business, I did so under the assumption that it would be temporary. It was initially planned as a means by which to survive in Los Angeles among trillions of other photographers and makeup artists while I pursued my real goal of working in the film industry. I had already accumulated a relatively large amount of experience with the “gender-fluid” in Denver, so I was only doing what came natural to me and I wanted to fill what seemed to be a great “vacancy” in the community. Similar businesses had already existed long before I arrived, but they were closed or on the brink of closing when I launched my own version. To my knowledge, none of them offered professional photography as a service, and mainly focused on makeup and retail sales (which I wanted no part of).

So I began my little service by going to all the gay/drag clubs, and a now-famous venue called “The Queen Mary.” I had only been inside the club a few times, because I had just started dating a guy who I knew would not understand or dig that scene. It was a new relationship, so I was still working hard to conceal my inner pervert. I was lucky in that he took semi-regular trips with his family, leaving me to explore the city on my own and without judgment. Of course I ended up in the drag clubs, and always thought to myself that I needed to revisit the good ol’ times that were the “tranny-scene.”

Flashing forward a couple of years, after he had left me and I was free to roam about the cabin with my usual reckless abandon, I found myself rubbing sequined elbows with my sisters once again. I made up some business cards and handed them out to the cross-dressers that hung out at the QM. I had my first appointment immediately and never looked back. Once I was a few months in, one of the rich CDs (that’s cross-dresser to you) I “made over” offered/threatened to bankroll a real business venture that involved renting a large, sparkly property that would feature his/her new “star artist.” I was only a hair away from signing my life away to someone who had no qualms about working me to death and taking all the revenue I would generate on his/her behalf. That would be my very first foray into the hive of villainous business “investors.”

Once I figured out that I could grow my own business without the aide (slavery) of Daddy Warbucks, I never again entertained the idea of selling my soul, or my talents, to an investor. I knew I stood a chance of succeeding in one of the largest markets in the world, only if I kept it manageable by avoiding an expensive retail storefront. I conducted business from my two-bedroom apartment for the next fifteen years, eventually completely converting what was once a living space into a functioning workspace.

Over those years I was offered the moon and stars many times by wealthy CDs, and I always declined because those offers always came with some sort of uncomfortable compromise, mostly in the form of me doing all the work and handing them most of the money. Why on Earth would I need to do anything like that? I was doing just fine keeping my business small and within my creative control. After all, I had seen several of those businesses fold due to their high overhead and it was obvious that it was the cause. Once I was in my fifteenth year, or thereabouts, I started to feel stagnant. I kept hearing the echoes of those voices from my past that whispered into my ear…”franchise….franchise.“

I had just begun the process of researching this idea right before I lost my shop. I made the decision to finally take the advice of my many business-minded clients, and start looking for an investing partner. I was in talks with one of them when the proverbial hammer came down. This person was very nice, and seemed to have honest intentions. However, after weeks of “getting to know you” kinds of discussions, he/she was relocated to another state and took the deal right off the table. This person knew I was very close to losing the shop, so it came as a pretty hard blow to me. Little did I know then that I would be tormented by nine more over the next year. Like clockwork.

Enter: Carlotta Goodhead

With a name like that, any thinking person would would know “she” was a fake. Even though most cross-dressers use fake names, this one was over-the-top, even to me. I gave “her” the benefit of the doubt. After the long spiel about his/her vast amount of business connections and experience, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. In my own defense; it was not due to naivete, but desperation and panic. The wolves were closing in on me any day to take my shop, and I would have stopped at nothing to save it. Including allowing such an obvious con artist into my office. Carlotta Goodhead was actually a 60-ish man who spotted one of my ads looking for a business partner, and since he was a lifelong cross-dresser, he had not only a financial interest in my business, but a personal one as well. He called me and insisted we meet early the next morning. He said he was driving up from Palm Springs, and wanted to meet right away. He arrived at my shop early Saturday morning and stayed several hours. He showed up “en femme,” and looked as if he had put himself together in the dark while drunk. Quite possibly the worst attempt at passing as a woman I had ever seen up to that point, and I had seen a lot. Oh yea, and he was drunk.

For hours I sat patiently listening to his many stories of business successes, promises of massive amounts of money he and his partners had at their disposal, and his desire to help me turn my concept into a household name. Before I could say a word, he had me convinced that I had finally gotten my Big Break, and I was about to see my years of hard work finally pay off. I heard a beeping noise coming from his brown polyester pants-suit pocket, and as he shifted as if to conceal the noise, I saw his phone fall out and a bright red light was blinking. He fiddled with the phone in a desperate attempt to turn it off, and that was when it became obvious that he had been recording the conversation. I had just revealed my entire plan to a stranger who was clearly acting with malevolence. He hurried out of my office with the promise to return the next morning with a huge check, to which I just laughed. I knew I would never hear from him again, and I was right. Even after a few emails calling him out on his bullshit, he vanished like a fart in a windstorm. I Googled every secret and hidden corner of the cross-dresser playground, and there wasn’t a fucking trace of anyone named Carlotta Goodhead. He/she was a fucking phantom, and I was the chump who fell for the ruse. Call me paranoid, but I assumed it was a competitor’s evil plot to uncover my plans for the business. More on that in future blogs.

Enter: Raven

The third person to contact me about expanding the biz was another CD named Raven. In his male life, he was a real estate agent just outside of Los Angeles. He was interested in licensing his own location of my business, and wanted to meet me to discuss it. I found him to be very intelligent, likable, and funny. We hit it off nicely and had a good time chatting away the afternoon. But my frustration and panic came through, and I could see that he knew I had much to do and to learn before I was ready or able to embark on such an endeavor. He cut me loose, but not before referring me to a friend of his that might be more inclined to overlook my lack of readiness, or better put: even more desperate than I was.

Enter: Egypt

I was told that this girl came from a wealthy family and would be the perfect candidate to license a location of her own. She was a young makeup artist and “genetic girl” who desperately wanted and needed steady work, and who had compassion for the transgender community. I contacted her and she was very excited by the prospect of owning her own business, especially one that allowed her to be creative and financially independent. What she didn’t tell me was that her life was an absolute shambles (even worse than mine), she had no access to any funds whatsoever, and she was flakier than a gourmet French croissant. And it took her almost two months to come clean with me, even after I told her a dozen times the price of the licensing fee.

Enter: Jeramy

Jeramy was a FTM (female to male) transgender man in Phoenix. He saw one of my ads for licensing and insisted that he had access to more than enough funds for this venture. After the first four “mishaps,” I was becoming a bit wiser in my initial interviewing process. We went through the usual “getting to know you” dance, and had arrived at the decision that I would travel to Phoenix to meet him and begin training. It was a “sure thing,” as he was ready and capable to start the process of opening his own location. Just as I booked the flight and hotel, and called him to confirm my arrival info, he pulled a Carlotta and “ghosted,” never to be heard from again. I didn’t even bother with a cuss-out email this time.

Enter: Lizzie

Lizzie, the porn-addicted cross-dressing Pentagon employee who was stationed in Afghanistan as an engineer. He was dying to do something with the oodles of money he was earning, and the idea of running a business that would allow him to be a girl and have perverted sex with boys in uniform…well, it just tickled him to no end. Of course he offered me loads of money, of course he made promises he had no intention of keeping, and of course he vanished once I sent him an executive summary that was a bit too real and jarred him loose from the fantasy bubble he was in. NEXT.

Enter: Heather

She was a genetic girl and makeup artist who was already trying to wiggle into the trans-community. When one of my cross-dressing Facebook friends saw one of my posts about how frustrated I was becoming as a result of my partner search, he intervened. He messaged me directly and asked some questions about what I was looking for and why it was so difficult. I explained that I seemed to be attracting all the wrong people, and his response was that he would forward my info to this woman in Ventura County that was already working in the community, and who had a wealthy family. She contacted me and was so excited at the prospect of training with the “Great Gina Jet,” that she seemed hardly able to contain it. Weeks and weeks and weeks of the same game: being excited, making promises, disappearing. Same shit, different person. Moving on…

Enter: Tom

Tom was probably the closest I’ve ever gotten to actually succeeding at opening another location of my business. I was working up in San Rafael at the time that he contacted me, again in response to one of my ads circulating around the internet. He was the first one to demonstrate any real intelligence and competence in business, since he had already been running his own successful business for decades. He knew way more about the legalities of business than I did, so I instantly looked up to him as someone who could teach and lead me through this challenging process. He wasted no time. After one long introductory phone call, we met the next day for hours in his home.

He was very organized, as he had lists of questions prepared. He was very articulate, professional, and almost rigid in his approach. We had an excellent conversation, and we went to look at several properties that same day. I was certain that this one would pan out, because he was very serious and obviously very trustworthy. He told me that he needed to think on it, and he was not making any promises. He asked if I would wait a few days before he made a solid decision. Those few days turned into eleven days, and I was trying to get back to L.A. by then, so I wrote him. He told me that he was going to decline because after much thought he realized that this endeavor would be more time-consuming than he initially thought. He also told me that if he changed his mind, he would let me know. So that’s where I left it. For a while.

A couple months later, I was contacted by yet another makeup artist who was interested in working at the new location, so I reached out to Tom again. It seemed as though he was back in the fold, so to speak, and ready to seal the deal. Of course after much more back and forth, he too disappeared, and the last I heard he was about to open his location without my help. I’m sensing a pattern here. Sigh.

Enter: Carol

The filthy-rich actress who wants to piss off her rich Catholic Mommy by investing in a business for transsexuals. More extravagant promises (like investing at least $50,000 into my business) followed by stories of her Big Hollywood Career. This one talked of partnering up for an all-female production company, me moving into her West Hollywood penthouse, and being best friends forever. This went on for a month, complete with nightly conversations that lasted hours. She promised me the moon, but she wouldn’t give me her last name, email address, phone number, and she would only call me after 10 PM.

Shrug.

Enter: Patty

Even if Pathological Patty wasn’t the most recent con artist to poison the well, I would have saved her for last anyway. She is the crown jewel of my adventure. You can imagine that by now I am more than just a little fed up with the endless stream of bullshit artists and time-wasters. You could also probably guess that I am fully aware that it must be me that is causing or creating this situation for myself. I’ve been over it a million times in my head, to the point of it keeping me awake at night. I comb through each of these experiences with fine detail, looking for my role in each failed attempt. Of course I blame myself. I’m obviously doing something very, very wrong. Obviously I was a serial killer of children and puppies in a past life. Obviously.

Patty was a woman a bit older than myself, who lived in Sacramento. She claimed to have been watching me on Facebook for a long time, and “finally found the courage” (her words) to reach out directly. She began the interaction by asking for my advice about starting a business like mine up in Sacramento, to which I replied that “my 17 years of blood, sweat, and tears is not going to be given away for free.” She humbly asked if I would be willing to have a conversation about it, and I agreed.

Our tumultuous relationship began the first time we spoke on the phone. I was in a parking lot of the Burbank library, and I was doing some work on my business plan. We talked for what seemed like hours, but I noticed immediately that she was very hyper and very intense. She could not focus on any topic for more than a few seconds before she hopped onto something else and lost her previous thought. We covered a lot of ground, focusing mainly on my intent to license my business to other people, and to not give anything away. By the time we ended our conversation, I was completely drained. She was the most exhausting person I had ever met. But she wanted to give me $25,000 so that I would train her to do what I do. I put up with her insanity because that money would have saved my business and my life.

Before I knew it, I was on a plane to Sacramento. She picked me up from the airport, and I was exhausted within minutes of meeting her. She was all over the place, in conversation and physically. Her house was a disorganized mess, much like her personality. But the one thing that really threw me and raised many red flags, was her overly-emotional and delicate state of mind. She broke into quivering tears every few minutes about something, like someone who was literally on the brink of a nervous breakdown. One minute she would be laughing, the next minute in tears. No matter what I said or did, I could not get her to discuss any matter of business, and all she wanted to do was socialize with the many people that flowed in and out of her house. She took me aside the next day and confessed that she was a heroin and meth addict, but I still tried to give her a chance. After all, she was promising a lot of money to form a partnership and expand my business. We ended up in a terrible fight the last night I was there, so I hopped a plane back to L.A. and tried to forget about her. She contacted me a few days later, ready to “get serious,” or so she said.

I told her I would consider a partnership only if she agreed to go to rehab, and she agreed. Somehow our “business” relationship quickly evolved into me taking care of her, taking care of her dog while she was in rehab, and her paying for an apartment for me until she got back. All of which seemed completely ridiculous and beyond all boundaries that I had, but was still willing to do as a result of absolute desperation. I was living in my car, with my cat, and all hope seemed lost. This crazy bitch was my only way out, so I had to swallow her insane behavior in order to save myself. But even the most desperate of fools will eventually tire of false promises and games, and get wise. Our last words to each other were very angry, and that’s where it ended; with a great big loud “fuck YOU!“

Needless to say, after all of this, I am a bit gun-shy about prospective partners. I have no idea how I will ever find that ever-elusive unicorn that is an honest, genuine business partner/licensee. I won’t give up, but I will also not ignore my instincts again in the name of desperation. Almost all of these encounters occurred while I was living in a car, so undoubtedly each of those people assumed I would be desperate enough to sell myself short. I didn’t do that and I never will, and that’s why I’m still living in a Goddamned car.

If you haven’t had the opportunity or inclination to read any of my other many blogs about being homeless, I will give you a quick briefing: I’m a 49 year-old white female, college -educated former business owner and artist. I became homeless a year ago, and my blog chronicles the adventure from the beginning up until now (I’m still homeless). I didn’t become homeless as a result of mental illness, drug-addiction, alcoholism, or domestic violence. I became homeless as a result of a declining economy, just like millions of other American small-business owners. You’d be shocked to find out how fast your life can and will unravel after only two months of little-to-no income. If it could happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

I’m going to dedicate this entry to one of my generous readers. His name is Bob and he is the second person to donate actual money to my cause. I’m going to dedicate it to him because I want him (and others) to know exactly how that donation was spent. I also would like blog readers everywhere to know what life is like for homeless people who are lucky enough to sleep in a motel from time to time. I can’t speak for all homeless people, of course, but to me these motels are an absolute GODSEND.

Now, I need to be very careful with this entry because it is very important that I don’t sound either ungrateful OR spoiled. But the truth is, I will sound like I am both. It is because I am both ungrateful and spoiled. Let me explain:

I feel both emotions very strongly each time I am blessed enough to sleep in a motel. I sometimes feel ungrateful because these are not nice motels I am referring to. I have to choose motels that are the cheapest of the cheap, which means they are always in the worst (i.e., industrial) parts of town. These are the areas of Los Angeles that have a lot of crime and gang activity. The other “guests” are often gang-bangers, prostitutes, and drug-addicts. This means, of course, that these motels are largely unsafe and unpredictable, especially for a single female. There are always police coming in and out, there are always arguments and fights, and there is always some “explosive” tenant on the property. It’s not uncommon to see drug deals happening outside of your door, as it is not uncommon to see prostitutes (and their guests) checking out in the morning. It’s also not uncommon to have a drunk and angry stranger pound on your door in the middle of the night because his plastic room key won’t work. These things don’t bother me nearly as much as when I see a single (and obviously homeless) mother trying to take care of her babies. I’ve seen many homeless women crying in their cars, as I’ve seen so many prostitutes walking around the property looking as if they have lost every shred of hope for a decent life. Of course it also bears to mention the ones who have been doing it forever, and don’t seem to have a care in the world.

Since I just passed the one-year mark of being homeless, I have stayed in a lot of these motels because I am one of the lucky few who has a trade and can work from time to time. I still have makeup and photography clients, so I do still get booked occasionally. This is how I afford to live in the “lap of luxury” that is the skeezy-motel sub-culture of Los Angeles. Of course I sound ungrateful, because I am still newly-homeless enough to still be clinging to my old life. My beautiful apartment that didn’t have cockroaches crawling all over the sinks, my toothbrush, utensils, and every other surface of my dwelling-space. I didn’t have to keep what little food I had in a nasty old smelly cooler, I didn’t have strung-out hookers asking me for cigarettes every time I stepped outside of my door, and I definitely didn’t have gang-bangers eyeballing me every time I returned from the street. I didn’t have video cameras and security guards monitoring my every move, nor did I have exasperated, grouchy owners just waiting to pounce on me if I so much as looked at them wrong. But most of all, I didn’t experience the icy-cold stares from strangers who automatically assume you are drug-addicted scum of the earth.

These motels are absolutely filled each day with society’s throwaways. Junkies and prostitutes are a given of course, but they are also filled with relatively normal and sane people just like me who are just trying to stay alive each day. Lots of homeless single mothers, lots of immigrant laborers, and lots of elderly folks whose families have abandoned them. We all have one thing in common, and that’s the fact that once we’ve arrived here we will never escape the culture and return to normal life. Not without a miracle because the rooms cost just enough to insure that we will never be able to save for an apartment, even if we work a regular job. Even if we were able to raise the necessary thousands to get a decent studio apartment, it’s unlikely we would get one anyway because in Los Angeles one must have near-perfect credit to rent anything.

So just to be sure that I don’t sound like I’m moaning and complaining about how horrible these motels are (and guarantee that my haters, i.e., the “real” homeless, will write me hate mail), I will flip the switch and tell you why I feel so spoiled when I stay in one of these places. In fact, this is why I get so excited and happy when someone books me for makeup, because I know I will get to sleep that night in an actual room, instead of a freezing-cold backseat. An actual room with an actual door, is a Godsend. An actual bed, no matter how uncomfortable and gross it is, is still better than a tiny backseat (even if it does smell like someone else’s pee). I can stretch out and roll around with the greatest of ease. I can wake up and use an actual toilet in the morning, instead of squatting in some parking lot, and that is so much more dignifying. A real shower? Heaven on Earth. Sometimes I stand in there for what seems like hours, just letting the hot water wash over me as if to erase an entire year of shame. Cable TV? Now we’re talking pure, guilty luxury. I can get caught up on the news and my favorite shows from my old life. TV is actually one of the things I miss the most from my old life. Snuggling in bed watching movies with my three cats on a rainy Sunday used to be my favorite past-time. I’m a huge movie buff, so giving them up has been a big source of my anxiety. That, and being able to make art any time I wanted. Oh how I miss my studio, and sculpting and painting.

All the wondrous things I used to take for granted are afforded to me when I stay in a motel: shower, bed, toilet, TV…all under the same roof! Sometimes the room will even have a microwave, so I can actually heat food!! When Generous Bob sent that donation, the second thing I did after getting this motel was go to Ralph’s and buy a nice roasted chicken and veggies. I also bought a quart of ice-cold milk, and Sookie-Bojo (my feline fellow traveler) and I ate chicken, drank milk, and slept like Queens. All those things that you, as a normal human, don’t even think about. As a homeless person, I will sometimes go weeks without these luxuries. But my suffering is NOTHING compared to many, many others that don’t have a car to sleep in, or a means by which to stay in an occasional skeezy-motel. Those people have it really rough, and I wish every single day that our society would help them. Oh, and I’m not talking about the Government. I’m talking about society, which is YOU.

THANK YOU, GENEROUS BOB!!

Please read my next entry: “How to Help.”

]]>https://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/2017/01/04/the-homeless-chronicles-pt-7c-scary-motel-culture/feed/3warriorsandghostssleep-eazy_motel31319444-copyThe Homeless Chronicles Pt. 8: Working While Homelesshttps://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/2016/12/21/the-homeless-chronicles-pt-7b-working-while-homeless/
https://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/2016/12/21/the-homeless-chronicles-pt-7b-working-while-homeless/#commentsWed, 21 Dec 2016 23:59:22 +0000http://warriorsandghosts.wordpress.com/?p=542Read More]]>If you haven’t had the opportunity or inclination to read any of my other many blogs about being homeless, I will give you a quick briefing: I’m a 49 year-old white female, college -educated former business owner and artist. I became homeless a year ago, and my blog chronicles the adventure from the beginning up until now (I’m still homeless). I didn’t become homeless as a result of mental illness, drug-addiction, alcoholism, or domestic violence. I became homeless as a result of a declining economy, just like millions of other American small-business owners. You’d be shocked to find out how fast your life can and will unravel after only two months of little-to-no income. If it could happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

I have mentioned in several of my other blogs how seemingly impossible it is to work while you are homeless. This is about 90% true. However, since I happen to be a freelancer, and have been just about all of my whole life, I forget sometimes that most people have regular jobs that they go to every day. I do not fit that profile. I have always owned my own small businesses, ranging from music magazines to making/selling art pieces, to doing makeup and photography for cross-dressers and transsexuals. My entire business and income is based on having a physical location in which to do my work. Without a home base, I do not have an income.

I am a girl who has never known a day without work. I was brought up with the idea that a woman should never depend on a man for anything, and that she should work her fucking nails off in order to survive, and if she was good at something, she should harness that skill for her own survival. There was never an ounce of the concept of entitlement anywhere in my family. Our women were workhorses, and it was our “glory.” I am damned proud of that.

Once I became homeless, I obviously no longer had a location for clients to come to for makeup or photography. I no longer had a shop in which to build and ship art pieces, and not even an office to conduct at-home phone work or writing. I had to devise a way to continue that work as a mobile service. It’s a very rare occasion that my clients will book me for any kind of services at their home or location. Occasionally I will get a request to do someone’s makeup in their hotel if they are visiting Los Angeles, but it’s very rare indeed.

So how do I still manage to work even though I am homeless? It’s a very tricky endeavor, I’ll tell ya. First of all, I live in a tiny, run-down car. It’s a horrible piece of shit PT Cruiser that I bought from some bimbo on Craig’s List. It overheats every few miles, and in L.A. traffic, that renders the shit-wagon pretty much useless. Just a couple of minutes at a long light, and the thing starts boiling and steaming. I can go a few miles, and then I have to pull over to cool it down. So yea, you can guess that getting anywhere outside my normal ghetto-perimeter is a huge undertaking. If a client calls me to do makeup in a hotel, I have to leave hours before my scheduled arrival time to accommodate the inevitable five or six breakdowns along the way.

The other major challenge is not having a place to get cleaned up and ready beforehand. I wake up before dawn most days; freezing, sore, hungry, and depressed. Gas station and fast-food sinks are way too small to wash my hair, and I can’t just go up to someone’s yard and “borrow” their hose. How can I show up at any job looking like I haven’t bathed or slept in weeks? How can I show up to a job stinking like an athlete, wearing the same nasty clothes I’ve been wearing for a week? Oh, my social calendar was so full that I didn’t have time to pick up my dry cleaning, haha! Sure I could spend $50 I don’t have on a gym-bership or the YMCA and simply use their shower facilities on mornings I have to see people. But even that is very difficult in that I would have to sacrifice a week’s worth of food and gas for that privilege. $50 doesn’t come easily for homeless folks. Even if I did have the money, I would still have to get there and have money for shampoo and such. But yes, it can be done.

The last drama to overcome is my cat Sookie-Bojo. I have had to leave her alone in the car for hours before while I was doing a photo job, and I do not like to do that. In the summer I would not do it, and now that it is “winter” here in Los Angeles, I can leave her in the car without fear of her getting heat-stroke. Can I leave the car parked safely and securely, containing pretty much all of my worldly possessions, unattended all day? Will someone see Sookie and call Animal Control? I bet you never considered any of things while you’re judging us for not “just getting a job.” Do you have any idea at all how hard it is to get a job in a city with literally millions of unemployed people? Especially when you have no experience with “unskilled labor?” Those jobs are all filled by students and immigrants, and they do not hire 49 year-old white women who don’t speak Spanish, in case you were curious.

And by the way, don’t fucking utter the words “get a job” to us as you walk by us when we’re already spiritually broken and fantasizing about what it was like when we had a Goddamned job. Mmm-kay? We want to work, you soul-less demon! Never judge people for not getting help that you refuse to give. You want me to get a job? THEN GIVE ME A FUCKING JOB!

But I think the most difficult part of all is the emotional/mental distress of being homeless. After so many months of being alone and on the road, your mind tends to shut other people out. You spend so much time alone and not speaking to anyone, not really thinking of anyone else, that you become your own best friend. You eventually prefer your own company above all others, because you can no longer relate to other people. You can’t possibly explain to other people what it’s like to lose your life, and everything and everyone in it, so you close yourself off to people. You deliberately fall out of touch with 99% of your friends because you’re either resentful of them for not helping you, or you just get too sad to think that they’re doing great and you’re not. Homeless people just cannot relate to normal people anymore, just like people with cancer can’t relate to people without cancer (at least while they have cancer). It’s absolutely gut-wrenching to see their Facebook posts about their new bed or water heater they installed in their house. Any kind of baking or cooking or playing in the yard with family. That kills me every time.

If your life is in deadly-serious crisis, it’s incredibly difficult to “pretend” that everything is hunky-dory for the people around you. Suddenly nobody’s problems are as serious as yours, and their petty little problems are impossible to even hear about, because you just want to shake them and scream “YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SUFFERING/HARDSHIP IS!!!!” I stopped talking to most of my friends for this reason, well…that and because how dare they complain about their teeny-tiny problems when they KNOW I lost everything I had and loved, and I’m living in a fucking car?! The very fact that they can look at me with a straight face and complain about such petty things makes me never want to talk to them again. The fact that they can do that without even a thought of helping me makes me want to punch them in the face.

So the mental strain becomes crippling, the grief becomes debilitating, and before you know it, you cannot even talk to normal people. I suppose now I can better understand soldiers suffering from PTSD, because of the horrors they have seen have changed who they are forever. They can never un-see those things, just like someone who has lost their life and lives as a “ghost of society” can never forget those experiences. Pain, loss, trauma, humiliation, grief, etc., will change who a person is. Just like daily looks of disgust and hateful comments will change how you think of yourself.

I do still enjoy working when I can get the work. When all the planets and stars line up just perfectly and I can actually get my equipment and get to their location, and be sane enough to fake it for a few hours, then yes. I know I’ll snap back into work-mode once I find a place to live again. I probably won’t be very useful until I can at least feel human again.

The bottom line? How about the next time you need some kind of work done in your yard, why not ask the homeless gal you see “lurking” around the neighborhood? Stop being afraid to talk to us. We are not out to take anything from you, and we’re very grateful when anyone acknowledges us as human beings instead of trash. Try it some time.

Oh, and to all the nervous old ladies who actually call police on someone who is digging in their trash for cans? Fuck YOU. Try being a human for once and offer that person a sandwich, for fuck’s sake. You won’t create a thief out of that person, you’ll create a watch dog. That person will now protect you from the derelicts that would rob you if given the chance. Kindness has its rewards. Try it sometime.

If you haven’t had the opportunity or inclination to read any of my other many blogs about being homeless, I will give you a quick briefing: I’m a 49 year-old white female, college -educated former business owner and artist. I became homeless a year ago, and my blog chronicles the adventure from the beginning up until now (I’m still homeless). I didn’t become homeless as a result of mental illness, drug-addiction, alcoholism, or domestic violence. I became homeless as a result of a declining economy, just like millions of other American small-business owners. You’d be shocked to find out how fast your life can and will unravel after only two months of little-to-no income. If it could happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

Sure, of course you’ve seen homeless people milling around town like zombies. They’re like the dregs of society; unwanted, insane, filthy people who make public nuisance of themselves by talking out loud to nobody and begging for your spare change. We have varying levels of tolerance for these people, because some of them appear to be quite “normal” and even fun to talk to. Some look like they’ve been on the street their whole lives, and some look like they just arrived. Some are coherent, and some are far from it. Some of them strike a chord in us, possibly because they remind us of someone we know or used to know. Some make us wonder how they got there, and some make it very clear how they got there. The ones that make me the saddest, and the most curious, are the women. Seeing a woman on the street makes me feel such a wide range of emotions, partly because I’ve always known that they are in much more danger than men. Hell, they’re in much more danger because of men. The other part of me is mystified over how her relatives (she’s someone’s Mom, for Christ’s sake!Or daughter or sister!) let this happen to her. How could anyone let something like this happen to a woman?

I’ve been utterly fascinated by the homeless since I was a kid. Who were they and how did they get that way? Since I was raised in poverty myself, the presence of homeless people was noticeable and common. I felt sorry for them, and tried to help them however and whenever possible. My friends were mostly the same way. Giving the other half of an unfinished sandwich to the guy on the sidewalk was just common behavior in our world, as was expecting to give out change and cigarettes on on a daily basis, wherever we went.

But something I never noticed before I became homeless myself, was the massive numbers of people who live in their cars. Now, maybe I never noticed them because they were just really well-hidden. Or maybe I never noticed them because their numbers were fewer in the past than they are now. Maybe a combination of both. But now that I am part of that culture, I see it everywhere I go. It’s kind of like when you buy a Mustang, all you see on the road are other Mustangs. You notice every Mustang, even from blocks away! That’show “Car-Dweller Culture” is. Once you become one of them, you see them everywhere you look.

I’ve been homeless for almost a year now, yet less than half of that time was spent actually sleeping in my car. Half of that time was spent either on the sofas of friends, or in seedy motels in the bad area of town. My “ghetto-of-choice” was the north side of Van Nuys, because that’s where my shop was, and where my storage was. I could simply go to my storage and swap out my dirty clothes for clean ones, and pick up/drop off my makeup kit and camera gear for days that I got hired for work. Those very few days I could work were a Godsend. The few pennies earned here and there were my very survival, as they kept gas in the tank and Cup O’Noodles flowing.

It wasn’t until nine months later that I ran out of resources, i.e.: friends, that I was forced to live in the car full-time, with no more sofas or motels to enjoy. That day was October 9th, the day I arrived back in Los Angeles from San Rafael. I had spent every dime I earned up north on a Craig’s List shit-wagon, and I had no more options whatsoever. My whole homeless experience suddenly became very real, and very grim. The “adventure” portion of the experience was now over, and I was in full-blown survival mode. Although I had spent many nights in the truck before this, I still managed to break up the monotony with an occasional motel. I was still managing to keep a positive attitude, because my adventurous spirit was still able to derive some kind of excitement from sleeping under the desert stars, and driving all day to new and undiscovered towns. However, the car I bought was so run down and unreliable, that I could no longer book jobs around town out of fear of breaking down (which happened daily). I could no longer head up to the beach and watch the sunset from the bluffs of Malibu. Now I was truly trapped; no place to work, and no way to work somewhere else. It was just me and my cat in a broken-down car in some random Taco Bell parking lot in Los Angeles.

A Day in the Life of a Car-Dweller:

I wake up during the very early hours of dawn, sore from being cramped in a tiny backseat, freezing cold and bladder bursting. I’m fully dressed, with shoes and jacket, because pajamas are out of the question. I’m usually parked on some residential street in front of someone’s house. The reason is because if someone breaks into the car and attempts to rape me, I can honk the horn and wake everyone in the neighborhood. Parking lots are not as safe, but they are usually well-lit, and if someone breaks into the car to rape me, I can honk and flash my lights to get attention. Most of the time I choose the residential streets, because parking lots make me feel like a sitting duck for thieves, rapists, and cops. After I wake up, I have to start the car and drive somewhere to use the restroom. Usually I go to big grocery stores, because they don’t notice me. I can brush my teeth, wash my face, pee, change clothes, and get something to eat all under the same roof, so it’s convenient.

After my usual morning ritual, I will drive around a bit to wake up. I usually have at least 4 hours to kill before I can go to the library to use the internet. Those four hours are the hardest time of the day for me, because there is literally nothing to do but sit in the car and wait. Since I don’t have an income, I can’t waste the gas, nor can I take a chance on the car breaking down. I have to stay in the same general neighborhood, and that really sucks for me. If I had a good car, I could at least drive to nicer places and enjoy some scenery, or even take some photos.

Once 10am rolls around, I can spend the day in the library. I post ads on Craig’s List for live-in jobs (of which only freaks and weirdos reply to), or advertise my own photo/makeup services (of which I have to turn down because I don’t have a location to work from), or apply for apartment manager jobs (of which I have never received a single call back). When the library closes, I get back into the car and go find a safe place to park. This is also a hard time of day for me, because it’s still early and I’m not tired yet. I have to find a way to pass the time, since I don’t have access to electricity to watch movies on my laptop, or to even surf the internet. My laptop battery is bad, and runs out of juice in only a few minutes. In the summer I used to read because it stayed light out until 9pm, but in the winter it’s dark by 5pm, so that shortens my night quite a bit. Sometimes I’ll take Sookie-Bojo (she’s my faithful feline companion) to the park, which she doesn’t mind if there are no dogs around.

The routine itself probably doesn’t sound so bad to most people, because they don’t know about the emotional side of it. To most people, this routine can be compared to camping, in that I just don’t have access to simple things like electricity or running water. The hard part about all of this is the pain of memory. I remember my house and everything in it. I remember the smell of my sheets, and the feeling of being able to go into the kitchen any time I felt hungry and actually being able to cook something for myself with my pots and pans. I remember laying on my couch and watching TV. I remember having a normal life, and the luxury of going to the bathroom any time I wanted. The luxury of having my clothes hanging in a closet, the luxury of being able to shower any time I wanted. Most people have no idea what it’s like to have no access to these simple luxuries. They have no idea what happens to your nerves, your sleep habits, your diet, your skin, your hair, your soul….

The memories of your old life are the worst part of being homeless. You just want to go home, but you can’t.

Car-Dweller Culture: Making Friends

It’s a normal thing for us car-dwellers to run into each other from time to time. Since I’m mainly confined to one area now, I see all the other car-dwellers fairly regularly. You start to recognize each other’s cars. I see the same van every time I go to the library, because the older black guy that lives in it always uses the library’s internet too. I see him at the grocery store in the morning, and I see him parked at Taco Bell at night (leeching off their WiFi after library hours like I do). I see the same lady in her Jetta every time I go to the Burbank Library, and the same Winnebagos/RVs whenever I hang out at the park. Car-dwellers are easy to spot because they always have t-shirts covering their windows and they have a ton of crap in their cars, like blankets and clothes. Or they’re laying down in the backseat reading a book. Sometimes we talk to each other and swap stories, and a lot of the time their stories are very similar to mine. We both started out having everything in life, and some unforeseeable force came along and took it all away from us.

Friend to the Rescue: Thanks for the Electricity!

I got really lucky a few weeks ago when a friend of mine gave me permission to park outside his business. He lets me park in front of his building at night, and hooks up an extension cord for me. I can plug in my laptop and watch movies now, and I can even go inside and microwave food and use his restroom. I can sleep out front and feel safe, and I can use the bathroom in the morning before his co-workers show up. It makes a huge difference for me, and makes the lifestyle just a little more bearable. And yes, it’s fucking humiliating as hell.

Trapped in Car-Dweller Culture: Why We Can’t Escape

I’m sure anyone who is reading this is confused about how and why someone can actually live like this, and I will tell you. The answer is easy. It takes a lot of money to rent an apartment these days. Especially if you have bad credit like I do. It takes about $5,000 to rent an apartment in Los Angeles, and raising that kind of money while you are homeless is next to impossible. Any pennies that you earn by doing odd jobs here and there are put toward gas for the car and food to stay alive. If I’m really lucky, I’ll get a cheap motel for the night so that I can pretend to be human for a day. I’ve said it many times: once someone has fallen below a certain line, it’s impossible to get back up. So the next time you spot one of us living in a car in some parking lot of some grocery store, have a little compassion. You have no idea how hard it is to live like this, and how emotionally draining it is to ache for your old life. Not all of us are crazy drug addicts. In fact, you won’t see me panhandling. EVER. I get my dimes and nickels from doing makeup jobs on clients (and I don’t tell them I’m homeless, either) or odd photography jobs. My pennies go toward clean socks, shampoo, cat food/litter, and sometimes a nice sandwich.

The bottom line? Don’t judge us car-dwellers as crazy or addicted losers. We’re just trying to stay alive in a world that would rather we disappear. We’re just people who, for whatever reason, ran out of options and friends who were able to help.

How Can YOU Help a Car-Dweller?

How can you help a car-dweller without giving them paper money they might spend on something they actually need or want, like pizza or toothpaste? The best thing in the world you can do for a “worthy and deserving” homeless person is to give them a motel voucher or gift-card. Find a low-cost motel and book them a night or two. I’m not talking about the Embassy Suites. They’d probably get kicked out for looking too “scary” anyway. They would be more than happy with a night at a place you would never dream of staying at, so long as it has a bed, shower, and T.V. so they can watch the news before falling into a blissful night of sleep in an actual bed. You take ice for granted, but we do not. We don’t get to enjoy cold drinks or chewing on ice cubes, because we don’t have access to electricity in our world. You probably can’t even imagine that.

How about filling up their gas tank? There are two things us car-dwellers always need: gas and electricity. It would be so great if the city would have little electricity stations for homeless people to charge their phones and warm up their soup, LOL! Do you have a relatively sane-looking car-dweller in your neighborhood? Let them park in your driveway once a week for electricity, or let them use your garden hose to wash their hair. Most people would rather die than do either of these things. Maybe they would consider it if it were their little sister who needed it? Or in my case, probably not. Just a thought.

*This is not a photo of me. This comes from an L.A. Times article about car-dwellers.